


Melodies and Memories

by mansikka



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Introspection, Love, M/M, Music, POV Alex Manes, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21974575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: Alex and Michael's relationship visited at several points over their years together, including that 'lost' decade, told from Alex's point of view.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 21
Kudos: 77
Collections: Reverse Prompt Challenge





	Melodies and Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :)
> 
> This is for the [Reverse Prompt Challenge](https://reverseprompts.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, art by the incredibly talented [dragonpressgraphics](https://dragonpressgraphics.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Challenge #6: [_Lantern_](https://reverseprompts.tumblr.com/post/189848251327/reverse-prompt-challenge-6-strumming-graphite)

Art by [dragonpressgraphics](https://dragonpressgraphics.tumblr.com/)

* * *

**17**

Is this what it feels like to be loved? _In_ love; not the kind like that mythical familial love Alex has never really had as a part of his existence. The thing he's heard about in movies or songs but never got to experience himself. No, this is something different. This is like a fire behind his sternum, an eagerness to his pulse that Alex thinks might make him see stars. This is how he feels around _Michael_. Michael, who is currently shirtless, sat beside a campfire, flamelight flickering over his skin, blissful as he plays Alex music. The soft strum of a guitar, a shy hum practically under his breath as he _looks_ at him. Looks at Alex like he might be something he might not be able to take his eyes off.

Alex knows that feeling. He first noticed _Guerin_ in a math classroom, twirling a pencil between his finger and thumb at impossible speed. Fourteen, far too cool and clever to be held back by something like school, Michael had stolen Alex's attention long before he knew what those feelings might mean. The way Michael had a snarky comment for everyone. The tone of his voice whenever a teacher got something wrong. The softness of his _everything _in the presence of his siblings. His kindness when he'd do things like share lunches with students who had nothing; even when he had so little of his own.

Alex has never looked away from him since then. Through being fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, monitoring this boy from a distance, curious and fascinated and maybe even a little excited. Alex fought back _those_ particular feelings, for knowing in Roswell, he could never do anything with them. Though then Michael was taking his guitar—_his_. When he could have taken any other from their music class. Alex still doesn't know how to ask if he'd been watching him too. How he hopes it wasn't some act of providence that brought them together, but something far more deliberate.

And now they're here. Camped out under the stars in the middle of the desert, Alex sneaking from his bedroom window just so Michael can serenade him by the fire. The glow, that stirring heat seeping through the very core of him, if it isn't love, well. What else could make him feel so alive?

Michael's eyes snap open, fixing Alex in place with a piercing gaze and the sweetest smile. He plays while staring at him for another few bars before pushing the guitar from his lap to rest by his side. "You okay?"

Alex lips his licks, nervous and excited for being caught _looking_. He moves closer on the blanket, brave as he leans in for a kiss. Michael is like a furnace, his own personal sun right here in the middle of nowhere. They may have only kissed but there is so _much_ behind it, and so many of those kisses for Alex to replay over and over when he's alone. Something more is going to happen between them soon, Alex is sure of it, needs it to happen, almost. Though for now, he'll savor the sweetness of Michael's kisses, learning what it means to be loved.

* * *

**19**

It's the first time he's been able to even let himself hear a guitar, much less touch one in almost two years. Alex strokes gentle fingertips over the polished wood feeling his stomach twist when the heel of his hand brushes against the strings making them twang, lurching him back to Roswell to where he's left his heart.

Michael writes so often. It shouldn't feel like he is with him because it isn't fair; Alex is the one to have left, after all. But it does. And in so many ways, Michael is. His music, those soft bars Michael played to him so long ago are a haunting memory that keeps Alex awake, taunting him and bringing him to tears.

Michael's told him not to blame himself, though how can Alex do any different? It was his father who shattered Michael's peace as he shattered his hand. All the loving Alex wants to give Michael's hand, with gentle caresses in the snatched moments they've shared together since, wouldn't do anything to help him, even if Michael would let him. Nothing now can bring back that _quiet_ where Michael could settle inside his own mind. So just the sight of a guitar until now has forced such turmoil into Alex, that he's flinched away from even listening to guitar music. His entire catalog of songs these days is carefully curated to make him think of Michael, without the painful reminder of a guitar.

Yet there is a guitar now, here in his hands. He isn't sure how it came to be here, nor if he can even remember how to play. How can he allow himself the joy of making music when, for Michael, it is something he will never do again? How can Alex do something so gentle as strum guitar strings when each one is a strum on his heartstrings conjuring Michael before his eyes? He'd like that to happen, dearly, to be able to meet that beautiful hazel gaze that still is the first and last image of his days. Wouldn't that be something; to make music across the oceans and summon Michael here, the only person Alex has ever loved?

He misses him. Oh, how he misses him. Alex listens to people around him speaking of first loves and knows without question that what he and Michael share is something deeper. Entire worlds apart, and still neither of them can truly pull away. This push-pull dance they perform of constant letters, precious hours that they steal together when Alex is back in Roswell visiting a family home no longer with any family inside. It would be easier to break free of one another. They are _young_. So many possibilities await them and would be open to them without this feeling of being tied.

But he can't let go. Alex won't; not for the love in Michael's eyes when he sees him, the surging in his blood when he is skin on skin with Michael, and everything else drops away from them for the comfort of being _home_. Michael is his home, his anchor, and his agony, and all the bliss and torture in between. He can't say goodbye.

Alex's hands shake as he props the guitar across his lap, feels the solidness of its back against his chest. He closes his eyes, thinks of gentle caresses and an unvoiced plead for him to stay, as his thumb brushes over the strings of the guitar.

* * *

**21**

He needs him.

Alex closes his eyes to his ache for Michael wishing for anything to change what's done. The unshed tears in hazel eyes haunts him as he does making him choke back the anguish threatening to overcome. He had to walk away from him. If he'd stayed with Michael a moment longer then all of his resolve would have come undone. It was hellish enough to untangle himself from limbs and blankets, to allow his persona of soldier creep across his skin like armor, stealing his smile and straightening his spine. Hardening his heart, Michael might say, and he'd have every right to. It is always _him_ on the receiving end of Alex's transformation, and always him who is forever accepting him back. Every time they try to stay away from one another. Every embrace that they tell themselves will be their last.

Alex hasn't slept the entire journey back, here to this barren place where the color seeps away into the blue of sky and the cream of sand. All he can see is _Michael_; the resignation as he'd watched him dress, his own armor setting in over his complexion until Alex could pretend to believe the stoniness of his goodbye. Knowing Michael as he does, there will already be a letter on its way to him in the form of an apology. Michael owes him no apology. The fault here is entirely Alex's own.

Is it cruel to keep going back to Michael? Does he know how many nights he's laid out here debating never laying eyes on him again? Alex is only comforted for the certainty, surely, that Michael must be doing the same. How can he want to tie himself to _this_? A person who wants so much love, and to give it, but is too terrified to try? A person who goads, and taunts, provoking Michael into giving him all the justification Alex needs to leave him. Then, on getting back _here_, already with envelopes stuffed full of excuses, half-assed apologies; only half of which he ever sends. It's a punch to his gut that Alex realizes in that moment he's never apologized to Michael to his face.

Though where would they find the time? Their aching need for one another means the precious hours they share back in Roswell don't leave much room for talking. Which is probably for the best. All the I love yous Alex wishes he was brave enough to say out loud would likely drown Michael in their rush to finally be let out. And then where would Michael be? Alone in loving someone who is no longer there to love him back, who is never brave enough to love him out loud. Though is that how Michael feels? When Alex is so unavailable to love, both because of physical distance and his inability to drop his guard?

No.

Alex stares out at the familiar landscape that he knows to be more a home than any life in Roswell ever was. He is too selfish to let Michael go. Not with the way this _war_ is raging around them; he needs _one_ good thing to get him through his day. Alex scribbles his words in minutes, ignoring duty, and sense, and all kinds of other things that generally give him focus to ensure his letter is ready for sending to Michael as soon as it can be. Then, because there is nothing else to do, he hums MIchael's melody to himself, the one he first played him back beside that campfire so long ago. If he closes his eyes he can picture Michael back then, the bliss on his face as he played. If he keeps them closed Alex can feel his caresses, feel the smile against his cheek for Michael being so happy that he'd stayed.

But if he keeps them closed, all the hurt and horror he has brought to Michael's world will force its ugliness in through the cracks of his happy facade. And he can't let them, not now, not in this moment, when that love he feels for Michael beats so strong to be let out.

Not now. Not when he needs to be the soldier he is here to be, and Michael and he are worlds apart licking their wounds. Alex needs to picture Michael safe, and happy, and whole. So he fixes his thoughts on a cherished memory of Michael, picking up the guitar still humming, and playing Michael's melody until it is his fingers instead of eyes that sting.

* * *

**23**

He loves him. Deeply, and painfully, so conscious of it everywhere he turns that Alex chokes with how much he's missing Michael. How has a full year passed since he's found a way back to him? Alex's cowardly acceptance of a mission that would keep him away from leave was his way of trying to let things end between them. Though all it has done is make him ache harder. There is a piece of him missing, a deep, visceral wound that is raw and stinging with every move he makes, making him want to double over with the weight of needing to be whole again.

Michael is that part, that shape, the salve to that wound and everything that is missing in him. And hearing his voice, well. It's all the blessings and every curse.

"You doing okay over there, Alex?" Michael asks when they've spent their first couple of minutes doing little else but listen to one another breathe. The reassurance that they're each there at the other end of the phone giving more comfort than Alex knew was possible. How has he avoided calling him before now?

"I think so," Alex says quickly, keeping his gaze away from anything on the base. "I can't say much, but—"

"All I need to know, is that you're taking care of yourself. Can you promise me that?" Michael asks, the sincerity in his words making Alex want to cry. He asks so little of him and gives so much; how can he keep pulling back from him?

"I can promise that I'll try. I might not have any control over anything more that."

Michael is unimpressed with his answer. Alex can feel it through the phone even without him talking, and the realization makes him want to laugh. He knows Michael so well. Even if in all this time they've had this thing together, their time sharing the same space has been so minimal. This hasn't been one of those loves for the ages; they've both wounded one another too much for that, even while spending so much time apart. Yet they have known love, and comfort, and care in one another. Even if all the heartfelt things they need to say and hear they won't, for both being so stubborn.

"What about you?" Alex asks, needing Michael to keep speaking. "How are things there?"

"Oh. You know. Usual."

Usual, meaning Michael doesn't fit anywhere, tries to give the world around him everything, yet never gets much in return. Alex knows Michael loves his brother and sister more than anything in the world; he wishes he could tell from the way Michael speaks about Max and Isobel sometimes if they loved him even half as much back. There is always a wistfulness in his tone when he speaks of them, as though there is something he wants to share that always gets away. Michael deserves love. All flavors of it. Familial preferably, since the thought any _other_ kind of love leaves Alex climbing the walls in frustrated jealousy for Michael getting that love from anyone but him.

"But you're doing okay?"

All they want for one another is to be _safe_. In reality, it is so little to ask. But there are things at play meaning _safety_ isn't guaranteed for either of them. Alex in his line of work, and Michael forever on the edge of a society where he just doesn't seem to care enough to belong.

"Yeah, Alex. I'm doing great. Really."

"You think you'll be around when I come back?" Alex knows the answer without even having to ask, but this time wants to hear Michael say it to him, instead of just presuming through letters.

"For you? Always," Michael replies, both fixing and breaking Alex's heart. How can he keep doing this to him, keep needing him so much but then having to run?

"It'll be good to see you," Alex says, when what he means is he misses him so much it hurts.

"You too," Michael tells him; Alex wants Michael to put more weight to his words. He wants to tell him so many things in return, including those confessions of love. Which he doesn't, only pours them into the guitar he plays long after the call is over. Michael's melody swelling into something painful and beautiful, and so very _Michael_ that it keeps Alex company. Keeping Michael with him even if they are always apart.

* * *

**25**

Maybe this time really was the last.

Alex has told himself more times than he wants to count that what he shares with Michael is over. It's been on the tip of his tongue when they're together, poised in a pen nib against paper, paused in his fingertips as he waits to type. He's never meant it, never wanted it at all, but this constant living in limbo isn't good for either of them. He wants to let Michael go; not because he loves him any less, but because having this tether when it isn't a support yanks him from slumber, concentration, and any other thought. Michael has to feel it too, surely? For the angry words he'd hurled at him this last time Alex had to go?

The problem with knowing Michael as he does, is that Alex can see the anguish beneath the anger, hear the love he tries to disguise behind a lie. Those beautiful eyes bright with tears when he tells him the worst of things Alex knows is only to protect himself. He hates that Michael feels the need to protect himself from _him_.

Not that he blames him. Alex wants to pour all the love he feels for Michael into every gesture, every touch that they share. Instead he pours acid into his decisions, excuses into his logic, until Michael snaps enough to give Alex reason to flee. Alex hates that he does it to him, and hates that he does this to himself. What kind of messed up person is he to continually push away the only love he's ever known?

He won't sleep again, Alex is adamant, not for seeing the hurt on Michael's face every time he closes his eyes. He's pushed him beyond any limits of patience Michael has shown him over the years, leaving Alex sure this parting was a real goodbye. Which must have taken some work; hasn't Michael always had endless patience for the way he keeps pulling back from him, walking away the moment things are complicated?

To have lost him now, after everything, after every argument and regret that followed; it doesn't seem real. Alex is numb, though bordering on hysterical, flightiness in his veins making him want to climb walls. If adrenaline was enough to fuel his travel Alex would be racing back to Michael right now, with his heart in his throat, apologies on his tongue, begging his inability to get his words out to be overcome by the time he got back to Roswell.

What is he supposed to do now? His entire life in the Air Force has been with Michael on the periphery, one small comfort to keep him going through his days. He has nothing. No family to give him sympathetic ears, no friends who even know of his pain. Self-inflicted. _He_ did this, and now he'll have to live with this, pretend he isn't waiting for Michael's usual letters putting himself to blame for all that was said and done.

Unless he writes a letter first, of course, saying how sorry he is. He _could_, Alex thinks, his heart racing for the possibility, dawning realization that this mess is still something he can fix. He shouldn't; not this time. Alex knows the most loving thing now would be to let Michael go, to leave him free to live his life, find some worth within himself. To be with someone who won't only want to love him behind closed doors.

It is with selfishness Alex wishes he didn't have that he picks up his pen, begins writing practiced apologies yet again. Perhaps this is the thing he loathes in himself the most; that despite knowing how much he's hurting them both he keeps coming back to Michael to do it all over. Though what can he say differently this time? This all has to stop at some point, doesn't it? What's the point in writing when he has nothing new to say? Alex stares at the pen in his hand trying to make himself press it into paper, but not a single word wants to come out.

Perhaps when he's slept, and the sting of all he's done to leave Michael behind softens enough to let him see the pieces of the puzzle he needs to make fit. Perhaps then, he'll have clarity on how to word things; either in ways to be brave and kinder than he feels capable of, or to cowardly latch on to Michael once again.

With his name in his throat and sleep out of reach, Alex puts down the pen and paper and reaches for his guitar. He begins to strum; this melody he's built up of Michael over the years played now with nothing but instinct, conjuring him as always, keeping Michael his home away from home. Alex ignores his tears falling, mumbles words along to the music, pleading with Michael from afar not to have given up on him for good.

* * *

**27**

"You walking away from me again, Alex?"

Devastation seeps into Michael's voice even as he tries to hide it. Alex would know. He's forced this reaction from him so many times. For so many _years_. And to think he'd returned to Roswell feeling hopeful. Thought there would be a startover for him that he'd never let himself have.

How was he to know Michael would still be here, still living in this Airstream that to Alex has a sense of home about it that nothing else ever has? He'd come back fully expecting a slow transition from service to civilian, while getting used to the loss of his leg. Alex had been sure from the tone of Michael's letters that he'd really have moved on from him this time. Literally. Alex thinks about those words that were curter than ever at the end of their last meeting almost a full year ago, said almost in this very spot they're stood in now. Would Michael's tone have been less harsh had he known Alex would be losing a limb?

Not that Alex hadn't earned that harshness, of course, for the constant push-pull between them, the forever mixed signals asking Michael not to go, when he himself wouldn't stay. So to see Michael outside his Airstream when he'd first arrived back was to relive those moments when, yet again, Alex had made himself believe things were _over_ between them. When his heart had thudded in relief while his mind raced to find an argument to retreat further. Alex is _tired_ of retreating. Alex is tired of everything that's happened; especially over these past few months.

The school reunion. The stolen moments when Alex had once again feared Michael going, the drive-in that had been the closest thing they'd ever had to a date, when he'd let his father make him feel so small. The lashing out at Michael that followed, the discovery of everything Michael is, the genuine need to process things this time. The betrayal by a best friend, the agony of thinking of Michael loving someone other than him. His rehearsed words of face-to-face apology because he couldn't approach him with a simple conversation. Michael's family at risk, the discovery then loss of his mother, and still more rehearsed words from Alex. Where has any of this got either of them?

And now they're here. Alex hearing the news of Michael's fresh attempt at kisses and intimacies with another person, letting it break his heart. Frustration building in Michael's voice because he wants _easy_ for a while, goddamit, he's _earned_ the right to an uncomplicated life after everything that's happened. To walk away now once again would be the best thing for them both, though Alex knows himself, he knows he won't. He _can't_; not when Michael's words tell him one thing, and his eyes and heart say something different entirely.

It's time for Alex to be _brave_; to stop finding excuses to not try. He _loves_ Michael; just as much as he knows Michael loves him, and if he walks away this time when it's the last chance he has, then Alex knows he deserves to lose everything. That he'll have to accept Michael moving on and be _happy_ for him with whoever he chooses; because that's what it means to love, doesn't it?

_He_ can love him. He can love Michael better than any other, can spend the rest of his life doing right by him, being everything that Michael wants and needs. He just needs to tell him. He just needs to let go of these rehearsed words, choke back the last of his fears of the unknown and embrace whatever is to come.

Though then Alex spots the guitar. Propped up against the side of Michael's bed in the Airstream, like he's interrupted Michael playing. Alex aches to hear him again, then trembles when he realizes what this means for Michael's hand. He lets his eyes fall down to it by Michael's side as they face off across the Airstream, watching Michael flinch when he realizes what he sees. Alex moves instinctively, closing the gap between them to gently raise Michael's arm by the wrist, thumbs brushing over the residual scars he's loathed seeing over so many years.

"What are you doing?" Michael croaks out, clearly unable to make himself pull away, watching teary-eyed as Alex raises his hand up so he can kiss over his fixed knuckles. He swallows hard as he continues to watch, Alex reveling in holding a hand that he's never let himself be free to hold. He secures an arm around Michael's waist to lead him closer, adamant he has let go of Michael for the last time.

"Can I play you something?" Alex asks, nodding to the guitar now behind him. Michael swallows for it, his eyes already welling up even if he doesn't know for what.

When Michael nods, Alex kisses over his hand again before stepping back, slotting his fingers through Michael's so will follow. He sits on the edge of Michael's bed, watching the ripple of emotions over his face as he reaches for the guitar without looking to lean it across his lap. He won't even move to tune it, for already knowing the strings will have been made perfect by Michael's hand.

All the love he feels for Michael. All the words he's wished he'd had the courage to say over the years. All the sorries and thank yous and affection he's known for Michael yet so rarely let out are tangled in every note, every chord ringing out around the Airstream in an attempt to resonate their wounded hearts.

Michael recognizes it, of course, those few beats and bars composed over a decade ago in his serenade to Alex out in the desert under a starry sky. His breath falters, tears already raining on his cheeks, as Michael slumps to sit by Alex's side.

"Not this," Michael whispers as his voice cracks, even though he turns to Alex like he never wants him to stop, his eyes on Alex's like he's begging him never to look away.

Alex won't. Not this time, or the next time, or any time again. Michael is his, and he is Michael's. Had he just let them _be_, their lives could have been as simple as that. "Why not?"

"Because. This thing. This song. It's… ours, Alex. It's _ours_."

It is. The piece has evolved over the years, keeping Alex company despite Michael being so far away. The music is a melody and a memory of everything they were, and are, and ever will be. It is an echo of their past, and a promise of the future that is to come. Though only if it is something Michael wants. Alex has to be sure. "Yes. It is. Is that a bad thing?"

"Yeah," Michael says with a soft gasp.

Alex's heart fails him, for fearing this to be the very last time, his final chance with Michael already long not taken. "Why?"

"Because. If you leave again. I don't think—I _can't—_"

Alex silences him with a kiss, crushing the guitar between their chests as he moves closer, the fading echo of his interrupted note the last thing Alex knows. Aside from the taste of Michael, the softness of his curls against his fingers, and the heat of his body as he presses in close.

* * *

**33**

The drive up the final stretch of track to the cabin is enough to free Alex of the tension of demanding clients, who think him working for himself means he is available to them all day long. He's luckier than most; picking his own hours, working from home or the shared-space office he sometimes uses, even in a booth at the Crashdown or, when kidding himself he's concentrating, at a bar that has become his go-to to frequent with Kyle. Since leaving the Air Force, Alex has found freedom and joy in so many things he never thought was possible. Even with those demanding clients, Alex still loves his cybersecurity job and all that comes with it more than he'd ever thought possible.

For the thought of being _home_ for the weekend with nothing he needs to do, that tension is replaced with excitement. There is little Alex loves more than the promise of a long stretch of hours with only Michael and him. And their dog Buffy, of course, who is already on the decking of the cabin as Alex pulls up, with her tail wagging and her resounding woof echoing around the wood.

"Hey, girl," Alex whispers, sneaking a treat from his laptop bag so he can't be accused of spoiling her more than Michael does. He'll know anyway, but this is one of the few things they like to pretend about to one another. Everything else is out in the open, loud and clear.

Like the music he hears spilling through the thrown open windows, telling Alex that Michael is in the lounge. Excitement is joined by _peace_; for already picturing the bliss on Michael's face as he plays. Alex gets a whole weekend with him looking like this. He can't _wait_ to get inside.

Their home is a beautiful cabin that Michael lovingly adapted and extended for him so Alex can move freely around. Inside is calm, and cozy, and everything Alex could ever have wanted. Even when he didn't know how to ask for it. That he's shared this space with Michael these past few years is a dream Alex didn't think he would ever be brave enough to reach for.

Buffy devours her treat in seconds, her claws clacking against the wood and her over-the-shoulder look at Alex drawing his attention back from wandering as she leads him inside. Something smells delicious; Alex's stomach rumbles for the smell and the sneak peek he takes at the pan on the stove revealing ones of Michael's specialties. It's a spaghetti dish he perfected over the years when he didn't have all that much to cook with, and now is made with the best quality of ingredients that make Alex's mouth water.

Everything in Alex settles as he walks into their lounge, silently dropping his bag on the end of the coffee table as Michael continues to play. Michael's eyes light up and crinkle in greeting, watching as Alex first bends to kiss him then sinks down beside him on the couch. Alex watches too, forever fascinated by the strumming of Michael's fingers over guitar strings, as he effortlessly plays _their_ song to welcome him home.

Over the years they've each tried to capture it with words, toyed with lyrics that, while beautiful, never quite sum _them_ up. They've learned they don't need to, growing comfortable with _talking_ so that the essence of them together never needs the addition of words. The music as it is, just like them being together, is _complete _enough.


End file.
